


cantaloupe and crappy continental breakfast coffee

by sportsnightnut



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fictober, X-Files OctoberFicFest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sportsnightnut/pseuds/sportsnightnut
Summary: It’s 6:18 in the morning when Fox Mulder wonders to himself what the definition of “fruit salad” is. In celebration of Fictober 2018.





	cantaloupe and crappy continental breakfast coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Set in mid-S2, somewhere in neighborhood of 2x10, “Red Museum,” mostly because when I see Mulder swipe off that little bit of bbq sauce and the way Scully smiles when he does it, I just have to imagine that their other interactions eating together during this time were similarly adorable. And because I haven’t written much based on the early seasons when they’re definitely not together yet, so it’s fun. :)
> 
> I haven’t written in a long while, but seeing @leiascully and others post about #fictober inspired me to dust off my creative writing brain. :)

* * *

 

It’s 6:18 in the morning when Fox Mulder wonders to himself what the definition of “fruit salad” is.

Because it really doesn’t seem like some haphazardly-cut chunks of melon and pineapple constitute a “salad.” Don’t salads have dressing? You don’t just throw some random-ass vegetables in a bowl and call  _that_ salad, so why does fruit get a free pass? Furthermore, what’s the deal with the fruit cocktail in a can?  _What the hell is fruit cocktail?_  And don’t even get him started on the stuff that has mini marshmallows mixed in, because there’s  _nofuckingway_ that something with  _marshmallows_ can be called a  _salad_.

He knows Scully would definitely agree with him there.

Mulder is poised to ask for her thoughts on the matter when she joins him at the breakfast counter, but he forgets all about it when Scully smiles at him and reaches for the giant spoon nestled in the fruit. There’s just a hint of sleepiness in her smile, the kind that will be immediately rectified with a few sips of coffee.

There’s a part of Mulder that loves seeing her like this in the mornings: polished, poised, perfectly curled and fluffed hair, ready to save the world with a badge, a gun, and a swipe of lipstick. But there’s the other part of Fox Mulder that wishes he knew what she looked like in the hours before this.

He envisions her completely sleepy-eyed, hair tousled and unwashed, maybe a little smudge of mascara that she missed when she removed her makeup the night before. No polish, no pantsuits, just whatever freshly-washed pajama set she chose out of the top dresser drawer or her suitcase. (He just assumes they’re pajama sets, because this seems like a Scully thing.)

Mulder doesn’t realize he’s been daydreaming of this in real-time and ignoring her attempts to start a conversation, so she nudges him with her elbow.

“You okay, Mulder?” she asks, smiling up at him, holding a styrofoam bowl full of fruit. He glances behind her to see her cup of instant oatmeal steaming on the table next to a styrofoam cup of presumably instant coffee, plasticware neatly placed on a napkin.

“I…oh. Sorry, Scully. A little tired this morning.”

“It’s okay,” Scully answers. She reaches for the handle on the tiny fridge to grab the third step of her hotel breakfast spread, a container of low-fat (hopefully peach or strawberry) yogurt. “Do you want yogurt?”

“Sure,” he says agreeably, so she grabs two of the little plastic containers and follows him back to the table.

The small tv on the opposite counter plays the I-forget-where-the-hell-we-are-in-Missouri local news, but it becomes background noise as Mulder sips his crappy continental breakfast coffee and Scully starts discussing the particulars of the case and the strategies she wants to employ today.

Mulder still isn’t listening to his partner, because now he’s watching her cut up pieces of cantaloupe and honeydew with her plastic fork and knife, and he thinks she has to be the only person in the  _entire world_  who actually likes these tasteless melons and doesn’t just eat them begrudgingly to be polite to whoever cut up the fruit for the  _I-still-don’t-know-why-it’s-called-a-salad-fruit-salad_. Because Mulder is not like this. He will gladly push aside the cantaloupe and honeydew in favor of the watermelon, the pineapple, the grapes, the strawberries; literally anything that isn’t those pieces of bland fruit. Throwing them in the trash always gives him some unfounded sense of satisfaction.

And then she reaches for the salt.

He hopes he’s not interrupting one of her thoughts when he says, “What are you doing?”

Scully looks up from her bowl and smiles again, this one brief and close-lipped, and Mulder is just so  _frustrated_ with this woman because now he’s distracted again by thinking about all of the different smiles and expressions she has and which one he likes best. (This one is a contender.)

“It makes the fruit taste sweeter,” she explains. “Here. Try it.” Scully stabs a piece of watermelon with her fork and offers it to him, and he’s sure this is going to be the death of him: Dana Katherine Scully feeding him breakfast, no less a juicy piece of watermelon.

Mulder takes a bite and he’s blown away. “That’s amazing. How…?”

Scully shrugs. “Something my mother taught me as a kid. I don’t really know where she picked it up. I’ve heard they do it a lot in the south.”

“I will have to thank Maggie next time I see her. Can I try a piece of cantaloupe?”

She laughs. “But you hate cantaloupe. You either pick out the good fruit from the bowl or you throw it away.”

Mulder feels this weird little twinge in his chest that normal people would describe as affection, or maybe even go so far as to say love, because he realizes as he’s staring at this beautiful, mesmerizing human that not only does he notice these kinds of things about her, but also, she notices them about  _him_.

“But the salt thing is good. Try me.”

“Okay,” Scully agrees. She pierces a piece of cantaloupe with her fork and offers it to him in the same way she had the watermelon. (Mulder reminds himself to file this moment away for safekeeping and come back to it later.)

“Damn,” Mulder says, shaking his head and reaching for a napkin. “Who would’ve ever thought that someone could get me to like cantaloupe?”

She claps her hands together briefly in what can only be described as glee. “Does this hatred extend to vegetables?” Scully asks curiously. “Because I’d love nothing more in life than to get Fox Mulder excited about eating fruits  _and_ vegetables.”

“Brussels sprouts, zucchini, and radishes,” Mulder replies, peeling the little foil lid off his yogurt. “Good luck.”


End file.
